


Tilled Earth

by killerqueenie



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Sharing a Bed, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-21 12:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueenie/pseuds/killerqueenie
Summary: By the time Merriell makes his way to Mobile, Eugene Sledge is long gone. He came into town, expecting the worst, Eugene with a pretty debutante on his arm, pipe in his mouth, and a look of hatred in his eyes.Instead, he’s gone, and when he shows up in dress blues at the Sledge’s front door, feeling sick from the uniform, from the humidity, from the fear of Sledge forgetting, or worse yet: remembering; the door is shut in his face. It’s done politely, of course, the servant telling him that Eugene Sledge no longer lives there, but Merriell darts a glance behind the man in all white, dark skin shining from sweat in the heat and sees the flat line of Mrs. Sledge’s mouth and knows that it’s true.





	1. Chapter 1

By the time Merriell makes his way to Mobile, Eugene Sledge is long gone. He came into town, expecting the worst, Eugene with a pretty debutante on his arm, pipe in his mouth, and a look of hatred in his eyes. 

Instead, he’s gone, and when he shows up in dress blues at the Sledge’s front door, feeling sick from the uniform, from the humidity, from the fear of Sledge forgetting, or worse yet: remembering; the door is shut in his face. It’s done politely, of course, the servant telling him that Eugene Sledge no longer lives there, but Merriell darts a glance behind the man in all white, dark skin shining from sweat in the heat and sees the flat line of Mrs. Sledge’s mouth and knows that it’s true. 

He wanders around Mobile for a few days, not knowing what else to do, or where to go, but then he remembers that Sid Phillips was a close personal friend, one that Eugene would speak of fondly. 

Merriell, when he was Snafu, hated Sid. Wanted that to be him that Eugene spoke so highly of. The VA gives him the address after a lot of flirting with a girl with blonde curls. 

Sid Phillips barely recognizes him when he knocks on the door to the cookie cutter house. It’s been ten years, Merriell thinks, knowing it’s a lost cause as soon as he walks up to the ranch style home. Hoping it’s not. 

A woman answers, apron on, two little boys playing in the front yard. Merriell makes sure to wear his dress blues again, to at least attempt to look respectable. “Is Sid Phillips at home?” Merriell asks, taking off his hat.

“Of course,” the woman answers, and turns into the house and sure enough, another blonde with curls shows up. Sid squints at him. 

“Snafu?” he asks.

Merriell shrugs. “I’m looking for Eugene,” he says, and Sid darts a look around, tenses up. 

“He’s gone,” Sid says shortly. 

“I know that,” Merriell replies, his temper flaring up. “I went over to his goddamn mansion to get turned away, I know he’s gone.”

The woman calls for Sid, for the two boys. It’s supper time. 

The boys fly in, squeezing past Phillips to get in the house.

Phillips shifts on his feet, and bites his lip. “Where are you staying?” he asks.

“Motel on Eighth Avenue,” Merriell says, confused by the sudden turn in conversation. 

Sid nods. “There’s a bar on Market and Seventh, called the Cypress. Meet me there tomorrow at four,” he says, his voice low. The door shuts, and Merriell is once again, left out in the heat. 

Merriell is half tempted not to show up to the bar, to leave and go anywhere else, start a new life in New York City, just to be ornery. But the only person he’d be pissing off is himself, because God knows Sid Phillips doesn’t give a damn about him.

No one gives a damn about him.

He shows up an hour early and nurses two beers before Sid shows up, four on the dot. Guess the military was okay for some things.

Sid orders a bourbon, and asks what’s Snafu’s poison, and Snafu just gets another watered down beer. 

“The hell is this all about?” Merriell asks. 

Sid looks around. “Follow me,” he says, and they duck into the far corner of the bar, dank, loud from the jukebox blaring some inane pop hit. If he had to hear Elvis Presley one more time Merriell was gonna punch the jukebox.

“Look,” Sid says, after a steadying swig of bourbon. “Eugene, he, uh, left.”

Merriell glares at him. “I know.”

“He’s got a farm,” Sid continues, ignoring him. “In Mentone.”

Merriell blinks. “Where?”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Mentone, Alabama. He raises…” he waves a hand. “Not important.” He pulls out a pen from his breast pocket and grabs a napkin. “This is his address. He,” Sid pauses. “Writes, occasionally.”

Merriell nods, and when Phillips slides the napkin back, takes it and folds it carefully, puts it in his pocket. “Where’s Mentone?” he asks. 

“Up north. Not on the train line.”

Merriell nods. “Know where a man could get a car?”

Sid smiles, slowly. Merriell realizes it’s the first time he’s seen it since they’ve talked. 

“I’ve got a truck I need to get off the lot,” he says. 

“Jesus,” Merriell says. “You a car salesman?”

“Makes the money,” Sid shrugs. “But I can get this one to you cheap.”

“Why?” Merriell asks, constantly suspicious of a handout.

“Someone died in it,” Sid shrugs. “Everyone who’s had it says it’s haunted.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’ll take it,” Merriell says. He deals with his own ghosts at night. What’s one more in the daytime?

The truck is a hideous blue, and Merriell throws Sid the finger and some cash before climbing in, address in his pocket, still. 

He buys a map at a seed store on his way out, and drives the rest of the night, the cab of the truck eerily quiet. Merriell doesn’t think it’s haunted, as much as it makes the driver think of all the things they can’t voice.

He gets to Mentone just as the sun rises, and it’s nice, rivers and lakes, lush green land everywhere. Merriell wonders why Eugene chose this place, why he chose farming. He was more academic than anything, not that he was afraid of getting his hands dirty. Just, more cerebral than the average fuck up, like himself.

The truck rolls to a stop outside a small house, a yard full of hens, and a lush backyard. 

“What the fuck?” he asks, and the truck doesn’t reply. He gets out, shuts the door to warn Eugene that someone is here, and walks to the door of the house, filled with unwanted trepidation. 

He knocks, but there’s no answer. Merriell hums, and he hears soft cooing behind him. He looks around and finds a gigantic black and white chicken, who is tilting their head to the side, getting a good look at him. 

Merriell thinks it feels right, Eugene owning a judging hen, but then he must pass snuff because the hen clucks and doesn’t peck. 

Merriell steps over the hen to get to the back, if Eugene is trying his hand at farming, he might be up already and in the field. The hen follows him, occasionally pecking at the ground and clucking, dashing up a few yards to peck at a sun-warmed rock. 

A bleating sound comes from somewhere, and there’s a small field of lush greens of all sorts, tomatoes deep purple and ripe from the summer, and it looks like rows of plants that Merriell can’t identify. 

There’s a hissing curse from somewhere in the rows, and then Eugene stands, face dirty, looking like a statue of David. Eugene startles on seeing him and frowns, blinking. 

Merriell is frozen, not knowing what to say or do, but then the hen pecks at his leg, and he jerks away.

“Hagar!” Eugene says, in admonishment.

Merriell smiles, slowly. “I don’t get a hello?” he drawls.

“Snafu, as I live and breathe,” Eugene says, still standing in the field. He leans down, disappearing for a few seconds before popping back up, and walking around, basket in hand. Eugene stops in front of him, basket full of thick, green, wriggling bugs. 

“The hell is that?” Merriell asks. 

“Hornworms,” Eugene says, glaring at them. “They’re all over the tomatoes and the tobacco.”

“What are you gonna do with them?” 

“Feed ‘em to the hens,” Eugene says, and sure enough, Hagar is pecking at the basket, her excited clucking drawing other chickens, mostly red in color. Eugene sighs, and walks off, and Merriell is helpless but to follow, like the hens.

Eugene throws the hornworms on the ground and there’s a feeding frenzy amongst the chickens. He steps out from the fray, and walks back to Merriell.

“Here,” Eugene says, handing him the basket. “Check the front row again, I’m gonna check on the bees.”

And with that, Merriell is a farmer. 

Turns out he’s pretty okay at plucking hornworms off tomatoes, and he thinks there’s got to be a better way than hand picking bugs off plants, but the sun is beaming down on his back before Eugene nudges him with a foot. 

“Lunch,” is all he says, and Merriell gets up, brushes the dirt off his pants and feeds the hens before following Eugene into the house.

It’s as small on the inside as it appears on the outside, but the place is so light and open, books stacked up by a worn velvet wingback chair, couch with a dip in the middle, and a crocheted blanket draped over it that it seems big enough.

Eugene’s made sandwiches; simple bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes, and Merriell doesn’t think he’s tasted anything better. “S’good,” he says through a mouthful, and Eugene nods, looking at his own sandwich. 

They lapse into silence, and finish off lunch with plenty of water. 

Eugene doesn’t ask what the hell Merriell is doing in Mentone. 

It’s good, because Merriell doesn’t think he could answer. 

They work the rest of the day, and Eugene offers his bed, and Merriell waves him off.

“I mean it, the couch is hell to sleep on,” Eugene says, stubborn.

“So why the fuck are you trying so hard to sleep on it yourself?” Merriell shoots back.

Sledge huffs at this, but relents. He walks out of the living room and comes back with towels, blue and white, and hands them to Merriell. “At least take the first shower, then,” he says, and Merriell figures that’s fair.

It’s not til he’s standing under the hot spray, letting a hard day’s work sluice off him when he realizes how calm he feels. Like this is where he’s supposed to be. Maybe it’s fate, like his Grand Maman would say, or just hopeful thinking, like his Ma would believe. Maybe it’s Sledge.

Merriell washes up with white soap and rinses his hair with conditioner, before getting out of the shower. He realizes that the only clothes he has are dirty, or the dress blues in the truck.

He walks out of the bathroom, wafting steam behind him, and clutching onto a towel. He pads quietly to the living room where Eugene is reading, pipe in his mouth. 

Eugene looks up, brown eyes piercing. He puts the book down, spine creased, and pulls his pipe out. “What is it?”

“Don’t have no clothes,” Merriell says. “Gonna steal yours.”

Eugene points with his pipe towards the bedroom. “In there,” he says, and taps the tobacco out of the pipe before getting up. “Gonna take my turn in the shower,” he says.

Merriell nods, and walks to Eugene’s bedroom. It’s nice, in the fading light of summer, the iron bed, the yellow and blue quilt, and white sheets. There’s a dresser in the corner and Merriell pulls open the drawers, in search of something to wear.

He takes out boxers and a shirt, pulls them on, the band on the waist and the shoulders loose. He looks to the doorway, hears the sound of water rushing, and he pulls the collar towards his nose to smell.

It smells like sunshine and soap, and Merriell doesn’t know what he expected. They’re clean clothes, why the hell would they smell like Eugene?

He walks back to the living room, and peruses the books and records Eugene has. A lot of old farmer’s almanacs, and some on hen raising, and a few gardening books. 

There’s few works of fiction, but one is a book of poems,_ Howl and Other Poems_, by Allen Ginsberg. Merriell pulls out the poems and runs fingers and eyes over pages with too big words.

“Never pegged you as a reader,” Eugene says behind him, and Merriell startles, nearly dropping the book. Eugene is toweling off his hair and in pajama bottoms and a shirt, the cotton sticking to wet skin. 

“I’m not,” Merriell says, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat. “Barely know how.”

Eugene walks over, and tips a book from the shelf off into his hand, one smooth motion. “Here,” he says, handing Merriell a Farmer’s Almanac, dated 1948. “It’d be a help if you read this.”

“Poems aren’t helpful?” Merriell asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not for farming,” Eugene says. “I wake up at sunrise,” he says, and walks back to his room and shuts the door. 

Merriell reads about how chickens can be hypnotized, and he’s not sure what Eugene would do with this information, but he decides to read it cover to cover to see if there’s any information on hornworms, or anything. 

He reads under the Buck Moon on the lumpy couch and eventually falls asleep like he always does: restless.

He wakes up from screaming, and for a half a second he wonders if it’s an echo from his own dreams of Okinawa, but it continues even as his sleep fades, his heart still pounding. Eugene. 

Merriell gets up, and runs over to the bedroom, opens the door quickly but quietly, and sees Sledge on the bed, sheets and quilt twisted around him, thrashing back and forth. 

“Eugene,” Merriell says, grabbing onto him, holding his arm in a tight grip. “Wake up, you’re home.”

Eugene cries out, eyes open but unseeing, and Merriell gets on the bed, dares to slide his hand up from Eugene’s arm, cup his face. “Sledgehammer,” he says. “Wake up. It’s a dream.”

Merriell knows it’s not just a dream, knows that he has these moments too, where he’s back in a mudhole, covered in blood and then he’s suddenly in the bed again, sweat soaked and shaking.

Eugene turns to look at him, his eyes still seeing things not there, and Merriell repeats, “Sledgehammer.”

“Snafu?” Eugene asks, and blinks, tears coming out, raises a trembling hand, it lands clumsily on Merriell’s neck.

“Yeah,” Merriell says, swallowing. “Yeah, It’s Snafu.” Snafu isn’t a name he’s used in ten years. But he feels the name like a weight, coming back around his shoulders. 

“Snaf,” Eugene says, grabbing him, sniffing. “Snaf they’re everywhere, we gotta set up —”

“It’s chow time,” Merriell says over him, and Eugene looks confused, blinks. 

“Chow?” he asks, and that seems to bring him back to the room, across millions of miles from Japan.

“Yeah,” Merriell says.

Eugene crumples, seemingly ashamed of what just happened, but Merriell pulls him into an embrace, holding Sledge tightly, laying them back down. Eugene tries to push him away, but Merriell holds on, not willing to let go.

He doesn’t hush him, or even say comforting words, just holds Eugene, tighter and tighter until he goes limp, and that’s when the crying starts.

Merriell stays behind Eugene, cradling him in a too tight embrace, while sobs wrack Sledge’s body. Eventually his breath evens out, and Merriell attempts to let go, to leave the bed and Eugene, but Eugene grabs his arm before he can pull away. 

Merriell stays, holding on.

In the morning, Merriell wakes up, and Eugene is already gone. The sun is well into the sky from what he can tell from the window, and he darts a glance at the clock and sees it’s seven thirty.

Instead of walking out to the field, Merriell makes breakfast, rummaging through the icebox and then frying up the ingredients. Once it’s done he walks out the back door and looks for Eugene. Merriell finds him with several jars of honey on the porch. Eugene is cussing, honey running from his fingers and down his arms. 

Merriell wants to lean in and lick it off, see how sweet Eugene can be with and without all that honey on him. Instead he makes a comment. “What are you gonna do with all that?” he asks.

Eugene stops licking his hand. “Locals have a co-op,” he says, standing. He sticks his thumb in his mouth and Merriell feel like he’s been starving, because he’s gone so long without Eugene, and now that he’s here, the craving that he has is phenomenal. “Rest of it I’m gonna get Charlie to take to the market.”

“Don’t you keep any for yourself?” Merriell asks. 

Eugene shrugs. “I —” he blinks, confusion on his face. “Guess I’ve never had occasion to keep one.”

“Gotta enjoy the fruits of your labor, Gene,” Merriell says. “Else what all is this for?” he gestures out to the field. 

Eugene huffs a laugh. “I just grow things for the heck of it, Snaf. Keeps me occupied.”

“Occupied,” Merriell repeats.

Eugene nods. “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.”

“That sounds like fun though.” Merriell smiles slowly, and reaches out, daring to touch, and swipes honey off of Eugene’s arm and sticks that finger in his mouth. Eugene stares at him with wide brown eyes. 

He glances away, mumbles about washing the honey off, and shoulders past Merriell back into the house.

Merriell follows him, deciding to wash his clothes, and again, have to steal Eugene’s. “Got any dirty laundry?” he asks, and Eugene turns from where he’s standing at the tap. 

“I got a few things. I’ll get you some dungarees, but I can’t guarantee any of my work shirts are gonna fit you. We can get some this Saturday in town.” He pauses, turns his back and says, “Thanks for breakfast.”

Merriell voices his agreement, and watches Eugene walk into the bedroom. Eugene clearly wasn’t going to address last night, and he wasn’t asking Merriell things like the length of his stay. Instead Eugene throws some clothes in the washer, and then eats breakfast. 

Merriell tucks into breakfast, the eggs getting cold, but the bacon still good.

Eugene washes the dishes when he’s done, and then finds clothes for Merriell to wear.

“Here,” he says. “I got a shirt for you.”

Merriell shrugs it on, the sleeves long, and rolls them, buttoning up.

Eugene walks back out and Merriell wonders about why Eugene is out here by himself, one chair in the living room, one chair in the kitchen next to one small table. It’s enough for Eugene, but Merriell can’t help but wonder if there’s room for himself too.

Merriell and Eugene get into a pattern for the next couple of days. Eugene rises early, and Merriell will make breakfast and then call Eugene in. They both go out and work the field for the day, Eugene gives him strange tasks like looking for hornworms, or making sure the hens aren’t broody, and then they break for lunch. After lunch Merriell watches Eugene work, and Eugene will talk to him about the crop. How tomatoes are supposed to look, or when to pull for an onion. Merriell retains about half the information, and then he goes in to cook dinner, reading one of the almanacs while everything’s on the stove. 

“Marigolds,” Merriell tells Eugene when he walks in Friday evening. 

“What?” he asks, looking at Merriell, askance.

“Keep the hornworms out; marigolds.”

Eugene looks surprised. “Wow. I never would have guessed.” He sees the almanac on the table. “Those things are good for something.”

Merriell chucks the book at him, and Eugene ducks, smiling. 

“Tomorrow we’ll go into town,” Eugene says over dinner. “We gotta get you clothes, and food, and seeds for marigolds.”

And every night Merriell goes to sleep on the couch, is woken up by Eugene, and holds him til the fears subside. 

Eugene doesn’t stick around for the morning, and it’s like it never happened. Merriell is okay with that. 

Saturday rolls along and they pile into Eugene’s truck (“What’s wrong with yours?” Eugene will ask. 

“Haunted,” Merriell replies and Eugene sends him a withering glare) and head into the center of Mentone. It’s a thirty minute drive. There’s a gas station, a general and feed store, and a few clothes shops on the main drag. 

Eugene puts it in park, and turns to Merriell on the creaky bench seat. “People know me here,” he says, “so when you go to Freidman’s, tell them you’re with me, and they’ll get you a discount.”

“I’ll just pretend I’m real tan,” Merriell sneers. “Think they’ll let me go in?”

Eugene thinks about it. “Yeah, as long as you tell them you’re with me. Say you’re a war buddy that’s come to work for me.”

“Is there something else we’re up to I’m not aware of?”

Eugene, for some reason, blushes. “Shut up and go get clothes, asshole.”

Merriell walks down the street, catching everyone’s eye. They must not get new people here often. The door to Freidman’s jingles the little bell over it, and like dogs, everyone turns to look at him. Like it’s the second coming of Christ. 

“I’m friends with Eugene Sledge,” he announces, and some of the locals make a face and turn, but the girl behind the counter slides out, smiling. 

“I’m Betty Day,” she says, sticking a hand out. 

“Merriell Shelton,” he says, charming smile instantly on. Some things are habits.

“It’s great that Eugene has friends over, I always tell him how lonely he must be.” Merriell nods, but is sure that’s something that grates on Eugene’s nerves. “Anyway, what can I help you with?”

“Need clothes. Couple of working shirts, couple of dungarees,” he says. 

“We can get that,” she says, and with no sense of shame, points out the underwear. “Grab some of those too.”

Merriell is surprised and amused by her brassiness, and follows her orders, giving her his measurements and getting handed shirts and denim. 

She rings him up.

“You get a lot of customers, out here?” he asks. Small talk is painful but still in his repertoire. 

“Not really,” she sighs. “Not like a big city. But we get by.”

He nods.

She continues, “I’m so glad Eugene has someone out there. He comes into town every two weeks and always looks exhausted.”

“What I’m here for.”

Betty sends him on his way, wallet lighter, but a week’s worth of clothes in boxes. He carries them back to the truck, putting the boxes in the bed, digging in his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter. 

A man approaches him with a smile and a lighter. Merriell nods, grunting his thanks and looking him over. 

“I’m Charlie,” the man says brightly, snapping the lighter shut. “I’m sure Eugene has told you about me.” He smiles, and Merriell immediately dislikes him. 

“He’s mentioned you take out the produce,” Merriell says.

Charlie shrugs, scratching his neck, and Merriell can tell by his mannerisms and by how fucking young he is, he didn’t serve. “I come by every other week and help him out with some farming stuff. Glad he’s got you now, though.”

Merriell stays quiet on that one. He’s not so sure of his place in Eugene’s world, despite all the word to the contrary that he’s good for him. 

“Yeah,” Merriell eventually says, tilting his head and smiling, feeling stretched out. 

“He tell you about the peach tree?” Charlie asks. 

Merriell is familiar with the peach tree because one of the details Eugene puts him on is spraying the tree and branches, making sure to get all the leaves too. It’s a pain in the ass, but he’s working for room and board. 

_“It’s been growing for ten years,” Eugene said, “and it hasn’t produced fruit, not once.” He squinted at it. “I’m giving up on it this summer.”_

Except, clearly Eugene has not given up on it, with the way he makes Merriell take care of it. 

“Yeah,” Merriell repeats. “Don’t know why he’s persistent about it.”

“That’s Eugene for you,” Charlie says conspiratorially, like they’re friends.

Fuck that shit.

“I don’t mind,” Merriell says, to be contrary.

Charlie laughs. “Better you than me.”

Eugene walks up with paper bags, and smiles when he sees them. 

Merriell frowns, darting a glance at Charlie. It’s the first time since his arrival at the first of the week that he’s seen Eugene smile. 

“Hey you two,” Eugene says, hefting the bags into the bed of the truck next to Merriell’s boxes. “Charlie chewing your ear off about the latest music?” he asks Merriell.

“Nah, he was bitching about that tree,” Merriell says.

Eugene’s frown comes back. “Maybe this year, but I just want some peaches, is that hard to ask?”

“Might be too cold up here for them,” Charlie says.

Eugene hums, and Merriell makes a mental note to scour the almanacs about peach trees. 

“Well, I’ll see you next week,” Charlie says, raising a hand and walking down the street. 

Eugene digs out the rope from the truck and ties down their stuff. He pauses, then digs in one of the paper bags. Hands a packet of marigold seeds to Merriell. “Bennet says it’s too late in the season, but there’s no reason not to start.”

Merriell nods and puts the seeds in his pocket. 

They get in, with one last stop to the feed store for the chicken feed.

“They eat enough,” Merriell says.

“I’d rather them eat corn than come peck at me,” Eugene replies, and Merriell raises an eyebrow in agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

Merriell starts growing the seeds next to the tomatoes after raking up the rows for weeds. He still has to go spray the peach tree, but for now he gently pokes holes in the dirt, and waters the earth once the seeds go in. 

He checks on them each day, squinting at the stretch of land he dug up. It looks like it didn’t take, and Merriell is more disappointed than he thought he’d be. 

Charlie comes by the next Friday and Eugene and he talk crops, and profit. Merriell stops listening after a while. 

Turns out Charlie also stays for dinner before making off with the honey. Merriell asks to keep a jar, and Eugene shrugs. 

He puts it on the windowsill in the kitchen, so he can watch the sun fade through the honey jar, and think about Eugene canning the jars. 

Charlie brings out a record, Sam Cooke, and plays it for them, and Eugene hums along while Merry makes dinner.

He makes them all gumbo, a little too spicy, and takes malicious pleasure in the fact that Charlie has to drink four glasses of water and a glass of milk.

Charlie leaves, and Merriell goes out to smoke, trying to blow out his anger and disappointment through a cigarette. 

Eugene comes up behind him, pipe in his mouth. “You’re being a real asshole to Charlie,” he admonishes.

“Kid’s sweet on you,” Merriell bites back, teasing and sharp.

Eugene blushes, and Merry just wants to grab his neck and bite at his chin, leave a mark so it’s so very clear that Eugene is taken. Of course, if he did they’d both be taken away to a hospital for crazy people. But that doesn’t make him want any less.

“He’s just a kid,” Eugene says, and Merriell thinks that’s an odd thing to say. Dismissive of the idea, but not in the way Merry thought he’d be. 

Not in a punching Merriell for even insinuating that Eugene could be the center of a man’s affections. 

“Thought maybe tomorrow we could go into town and see a movie,” Eugene carries on, like Merriell’s world didn’t just shift a little closer to Sledge. It’s already so mixed up he can’t tell what’s his and what’s Eugene’s, but he likes that.

Merry shrugs, and looks down at the ground. “Fuck,” he says, smiling, laughter bubbling out of him.

“What?” Eugene asks around his pipe.

Merriell points, and there’s a tiny sprout, a little green shoot with two leaves. Merriell stares at it for a long time. 

“What’cha looking at?” Eugene asks, pulling his pipe out of his mouth, squinting at the ground.

“Marigolds,” Merriell says, inexplicably proud. He smiles at Eugene.

Eugene smiles back, and Merriell feels like he’s flying.

None of the matinees look that enticing, so they land on _The Mole People_, and they’re only three minutes into it when Merriell wants to roll his eyes and groan. It’s a stinker, and since they’re the only ones in the theater, he feels free to throw his over buttered popcorn at the screen and make loud comments. 

Eugene laughs at him, occasionally reaching for popcorn to eat, their fingers brushing, slick and salty. 

Merriell can’t help but dart glances over to Eugene during the film, the long, sharp profile, floppy red hair. It makes Merriell want to pull him in by his ears and kiss him full on the mouth. Maybe feel their lips slick with butter move in tandem, each trying to move closer. 

Instead Merriell licks his fingers for the taste of flesh, imagining Eugene’s in place of his own. He dares to look over at him, and finds Sledge watching him, quickly turning to the screen, his face dark, his neck undulating with a swallow. 

“God I wish John Agar would shut the fuck up,” Merriell says, and Eugene snorts.

The ride home is silent, and Merriell, when they get to the house, takes an old quilt and an almanac and goes to sit under the peach tree. 

Hagar comes by and coos at him, nesting onto the quilt. 

“Better not start brooding,” Merriell mutters. The amount of times he’s had to collect eggs from pissed off hens is way higher than he ever bargained for. Hagar just clucks at him, tilting her head. 

“You talking to Hagar?” Eugene asks, startling Merriell. 

Merriell glares at him, peering up at him, the sun in his eyes. 

“I used to all the time, before you came,” Eugene admits. “She probably misses it.” He sits down on the quilt and packs his pipe while Merry gets more comfortable on the ground. 

It feels like an eternity, just them on the quilt under the tree, leaves above them fluttering in the hot breeze. Dappled sunlight warms Merriell, and he drifts off, unknowingly. 

“Hey,” Eugene says, waking him up from a dreamless sleep. Sledge’s hand is on his shoulder, and the weight of it feels right. 

Merriell groans, unable to form words yet, and notices it’s dark, the sun beginning its journey to the west. “How long?” Merriell asks.

“Two hours,” Eugene replies. “Fell asleep myself.” His hand slips off and Merriell wants to hold it and put it back. He doesn’t, just feels the tingling of his own skin where Eugene’s hand was, savors it for what it is.

He feels like this moment could last forever, just a sunset under the peach tree, them together. Merriell wants to hold onto Eugene and let the darkness of the night wash over them, let them watch the stars like in Okinawa, but this time there’s ten years between them and the horrors of war. 

Maybe under the stars, Eugene wouldn’t cry out in the night. But then, Merriell wouldn’t get to hold him. 

Eugene gets up and walks back to the house. 

Merriell sighs, and lights up a cigarette, lying back on the quilt and trying to recapture that feeling of being next to Eugene because Eugene wanted him to be there. Not because Eugene was afraid of being alone with his fears. 

The next week is the deluge of rain that apparently is normal for Alabama summers. Merriell goes stir crazy on day two.

“Can’t we go into town?” he asks. “See another movie?”

Eugene looks at him from his book, raises an eyebrow. “We’d have to drive in the rain. We’d be inside, just somewhere else.”

“I’m getting itchy with being here all the time!” Merriell snaps.

“It’s part of the deal, Snaf,” Eugene says. “Rain makes shit grow.”

Merriell lets out a “Fuck you,” to which Eugene replies the same with half the heat.

So he has to find shit to do. He starts by reading, but that works for an hour, then cleaning. That takes him to dinner time, when he cooks. That’s day two.

Day three Merriell organizes the books and records, annoys Eugene to the point where Eugene’s big nose is crammed in a book and not coming out for the foreseeable future, and then cooks more than necessary, just to do something with his hands.

Day four starts, and Merriell rolls out of bed, Eugene probably still in a snit. Merriell decides to bake bread. Eugene watches him from behind his book, strange furtive glances that send chills down Merry’s spine. By the late afternoon the whole house smells like bread, and Merriell relaxes a little in the simple pleasure that brings. He makes a honey butter from the jar he put aside, licking his fingers and the spoon, and Eugene snaps. 

“Can you stop licking every damn thing?” he asks, gripping his book tightly.

“I’ll lick you,” Merriell says, not thinking, sharp words shooting back, and has to turn back to the butter mixture, feeling blood rush to his neck, and his stomach flip. _If only_, he thinks. He keeps his back to Eugene, letting the work of mixing take up the space in his head, and not the thoughts of Eugene flushed for different reasons entirely. Letting Merriell kiss him, touch his pale body, licking stripes up his neck, down his back, biting bruises into pink flesh.

Merriell licks his lips, and wishes they were Eugene’s. 

Day five the bed is empty again, and Merriell gets up to find the house empty of Eugene. The trucks are both still there, and Merriell looks out from the porch to see Eugene checking on the chickens. He glances over the field, and while he’s sure the plants are thankful for the rain, he can’t say he’s too happy it’s still here. He’s afraid at this point his marigolds will be washed away. 

He shucks on his work boots over bare feet, tucking his sleeping pants inside, but stays shirtless because what’s the point?

He checks on the marigolds, still growing, bending and snapping back under the weight of rain. He looks over the other crops, picks a few potatoes, and wipes water from his eyes, searching across the field for Eugene. 

Sledge is over at the beehive, and Merriell makes his way over, stopping at the peach tree, reaching up to a branch, checking the leaves, when he sees small bumps on the branch amongst the leaves. In fact, it’s on almost all the branches. 

Puzzled, he runs a soft finger along the limb, feeling the small green buds. “Eugene!” he shouts, the rain muffling his voice. “Gene!”

“What is it?” Eugene asks, walking up. His red hair is slicked back out of his face. Merriell has never seen him look so ridiculous, or so handsome. 

“The peach tree!” Merriell says, laughing, pulling down a branch. “Look!”

Eugene wipes water out of his eyes and grabs the branch where Merry’s hand is. 

Eugene’s face stays blank, looking at the branch.

“It’s fruiting!” Merriell says. He lets go, unable to take his eyes off of Eugene. He’d thought he’d get more of a reaction. “It’s growing, Eugene.”

Eugene studies the branch, sees the fruit budding and smiles, brightly and unabashed. “How ‘bout that,” he whispers, and Merriell can barely hear him over the rain splattering on the soaked ground. “Guess I just needed you,” Eugene continues, and locks eyes with Shelton for two moments too long. 

Merriell wants to grab Eugene’s wrist, to cup his jaw and kiss him, but does none of these things. “Guess so,” Merriell says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been gut punched with want.

The rain finally fucking stops that night, and with it, the flowers and vegetables burst forth like a gasp from being so thirsty. Merriell doesn’t want to say that Eugene was right, and “rain makes shit grow” but damn. 

Eugene gets a spool of ribbon the next week and snips off equal strips of blue fabric. 

“The hell you doing?” Merriell asks him over the breakfast table. 

“I signed up for the fair this year,” Eugene explains, cutting off another bit. “I’m gonna have you go out and tie these on the best looking tomato and tobacco plants. The peaches won’t be here til late August, I’m guessing, so that’s a bust on them.” He smiles, even as he grumbles about the peaches.

“What’s the point?” Merriell asks, half curious, half mocking. “Measuring contests? Which farmer has the biggest tomato?”

Eugene sends him a baleful glare. “When you meet Farmer Reese you’re gonna wanna stick those words back in your mouth.”

“Why? He handsome?”

Eugene blushes angrily. “No, he’s near seventy with a gaggle of kids.”

“So he’s already won, is what you’re saying,” Merriell eggs on.

Eugene rolls his eyes so hard they might as well fall out of their sockets and be halfway to Atlanta by now. “It’s for money, dumbass. If I get prize winning tomatoes, then the whole county’s gonna want them. I get money for the prize, and I can jack up the price of the tomatoes, and then I buy a new bed.” 

“Bed?” Merriell asks, feeling the scrunch of his face.

Eugene glares, blushing. 

It’s a look, Merriell thinks, one he’d be happy to see again and again, over breakfast or tobacco plants.

“For us,” Eugene says, too softly for the occasion. 

Eugene is getting a bigger bed because Merry keeps slipping into it at night. It’s the first time Sledge has even mentioned or hinted at Merriell being an imposition. 

“I can stick to the couch,” Merriell says, digging in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and lighting it. He stares at the ribbons Eugene’s stopped cutting. Merry doesn’t apologize, doesn’t take back all those nights he held Sledge close; scared boys in a bed and not the trenches. It’s an offer to step back, however.

Eugene clears his throat. “I figure it’s an investment,” he says. “A payment.” His face gets even brighter from blood rushing to it. “For your help ‘round here.”

“Don’t need to pay me,” Merry says, frowning. He ashes his cigarette into the glass ashtray on the table. 

“Then don’t bring it up,” Eugene snaps, and shoves the ribbons across the table to Merriell before standing abruptly and walking outside.

Merriell waits until his cigarette starts to burn the tips of his fingers before picking up the pieces of ribbon and heading out back. 

The fair comes at the start of fall, the sky somehow bluer than it’s been all summer, and the clouds wispy and high. It’s still hot as hell, the thermostat on the porch stuck on ninety degrees and won’t dip down until three hours before the sun rises again. 

They pack up the best tomatoes and tobacco leaves, and even some eggs. The fair is an hour drive out, and they see a lot of trees before there’s a ferris wheel peeking over the top of them.

“They got rides and shit, too,” Merriell says. 

“Ain’t getting on the Scrambler with you,” Eugene says back. 

“What about the ferris wheel?” Merriell teases. He knows he’s toeing the line again. He’s been doing it so often now, the scuffs from his feet in the dirt have moved that line, made it wiggly and almost indecipherable to which side is what. Because he needs to know how far over that drawn line Eugene will let him go. 

Eugene, though, just rolls his eyes. 

They park and carry their boxes of produce over to the county fair judges, waiting while the judges apply numbers to them for judging blind. 

Eugene looks practically glued to the judge’s every movement, but Merriell reaches out and grabs Eugene’s wrist before pulling him away from scaring the judges. 

They eat cotton candy and get sticky fingers, sugar-dew on their tongues. 

Gene makes them check out the livestock, the pig races, and they stop to watch the ferris wheel turn a few times, watching as children and lovers, too go around and around. Couples, holding hands, and snuggling as the sun goes down and all Merry can do is pass the bottle of Coke back and forth with Eugene and pretend that they could share that kind of intimacy too. 

Sledge gets ants in his pants once the Coke’s gone, and they beeline it to the judges table where they’re calling out the places for the produce. 

The eggs don’t place, and neither does the tobacco, but the tomatoes come in third. 

Gene’s eyes light up, and erry feels dumb for being jealous of fucking tomatoes. 

They get in the truck, green ribbon in hand. 

“Maybe next year I’ll make a cake,” Merriell jokes.

“That means you’ll be in the kitchen, ‘stead of the field, where I need you,” Eugene says.

“I’m joking, dumbass.”

“Fuck off,” Eugene snipes, smiling. “I can’t believe we placed.” He says it with wonderment, slapping the steering wheel in excitement. His mouth is wide in a beaming smile.

“Shit,” Merriell drawls, “Now we gotta wait while all that green ribbon cash comes rolling in.”

Gene barks a laugh. 

Merriell desperately wants to reach over and grab the strong hands yanking the clutch around and do something wild, like hold it, kiss it, suck on those callused fingers.

Merriell wants to make Eugene pull over and have them figure out how well the shocks on the truck work while they grind on each other, taste the lingering sugar on the other’s tongues. 

Merriell wants to hold Eugene on their new bed, just letting the light of the sun and their bodies warm them.

Merriell _wants_.

He sits on his hands the rest of the ride home, listening to Eugene gloat, wishing that he could get out of the truck and out of temptation’s way.

It starts raining halfway through the drive home, thick drops that are impossible to see through, enough that Eugene has to pull over for a few minutes while the worst of it passes.

“Guess you don’t gotta spray the peach tree when we get home,” Sledge says, peering up at the sky through the windshield. 

“Could do it anyway, Sledgehammer,” Merriell says, tight with not touching, from holding back.

Eugene looks at him blankly. He’s silent for a bit while the outside roars with rain. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that since you’ve come back.”

“That you know of,” Merriell says. 

“Calling me names behind my back?”

“In bed,” Merriell says bluntly. “When you’re remembering. Seeing the same shit I used to see.”

Eugene doesn’t say anything again, the pattering of water hitting the truck slows down enough that Eugene could turn the engine back over and drive off. He doesn’t though, sits there a while longer. “How come you don’t remember?” he asks, and he sounds angry and tired like he used to get.

“When I got off that train, I lived in the city for ten damn years, because that where the paying jobs were,” Merriell says. “I barely made it out of Japan, and I barely made it out of New Orleans, because every loud noise would keep me up for hours, seeing shit I thought I could forget.” His hands itch for a cigarette, but he just sits on them tighter. “Car backfiring, people yelling in the streets, hell even the start of the brass band when the funerals came by would kick it off sometimes.

“Got on the train, figured Mobile was quieter than New Orleans, and now I guess Mentone might be the quietest place on this forsaken planet, other than them hens.”

“You were looking for quiet and found me,” Eugene says, contemplative and low.

“Nah,” Merriell says, shifting, “I was looking for you, and found some quiet.”

Eugene doesn’t say anything to this, just turns the engine over and drives in the rain.

By the time they get to the house, the silence has taken over the both of them and Merriell feels like he’s gonna burst with something, but he doesn’t know what. 

They dash to the porch, both of them soaked through anyway and Merriell, with nothing holding his hands back, brushes his fingers against the burnt nape of Eugene’s neck, damp with rain and sweat.

Eugene turns from trying to open the door, looking at him, blushing.

“I can’t stop,” Merriell says. “I can go, I can find somewhere else,” he says. “But if I’m staying here, I can’t stop.”

Eugene looks behind him, like maybe one of the neighbors will come strolling up (fat chance, the closest one’s five miles off), and yanks Merriell inside.

Merry’s ready for a fight, but Eugene grapples with him, pushes Merriell’s frame against the doorway, and kisses him.

Eugene kisses like he fights, desperate and sure.

But he kisses soft too, like his heart.

“Don’t you fucking leave me, I’ll find you, I swear to God,” and Merriell knows it’s a promise rather than curse; Eugene’s a religious man.

Gene’s lips return to his, sliding along, chasing the taste of rain, of Coke, of cotton candy from Merriell’s mouth. They take turns being gentle like well seasoned lovers, and rough like two young boys, eager and angry for this taking so long.

Merriell takes the time to do all the things he’s wanted to, like biting Eugene’s chin, licking his nose, and sucking on his neck. 

Eugene in turn, tugs at Merry’s hair, sucks on his upper lip and groans out Shelton’s name, like a fucking prayer. 

They stay in the doorway, inside and outside of the house, pressing each other on the frame of the house while the rain pours, letting their hips touch, feeling the steel heat of their cocks touch through frustrating cotton layers. 

Merriell reaches down to start unzipping Eugene’s pants, getting a good feel of him first, Gene moaning loud enough that Merry darts a look to the treeline for a neighbor to come up and ask what all the racket’s about.

They don’t get any further than unbuckling and unzipping before rubbing their cocks together, finally getting their hands on each other and coming like teenagers.

“Fuck,” Gene says, slinging come off his hand and out onto the porch.

Merriell kisses him. “Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll show you how,” he says, teasing.

He expects anger or dismissal, but Eugene kisses him with fire in his eyes and love on his lips.

“You fucking better,” he says, and heads for the shower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there miiiiiight be more, but honestly, it's gonna be a minute!
> 
> follow me at killerqueenie.tumblr.com


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